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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936515">Through an Open Window</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patroc/pseuds/Patroc'>Patroc</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>We Are The Tigers - Allen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, clark lives au, four nipples clark isn't, i apparently only write chaos for this fandom, some fics don't deserve editing, trans clark is the hill I will die on</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:27:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,549</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patroc/pseuds/Patroc</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark always knew he was different. He never realized what it really meant.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Through an Open Window</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the cold knife pierced his abdomen, an electric shock shook Clark’s being to the core, pulling him out of his blinded and unconscious state. He felt more alive than ever. He wasn’t religious at all. Annleigh was to some degree. He had yet to figure out if she was being genuine or if there was something else going on there, but his lack of religion didn’t matter. He was a messenger of God come to flip some tables in the temple. He was on <b>fire</b>. </p><p>When his senses had restored themselves, he took stock of his surroundings. <em> Cold toilet. Blood. Lots of blood. What the heck? Is that </em> my <em> blood? </em>Looking down at his chest, he could see that there was indeed a rather decent sized bloodstain on his stomach. Carefully, he unbuttoned his shirt to examine himself. If he hadn’t been feeling on top of the world thirty seconds ago, he probably would have passed out from the sight. Blood always made him feel a little woozy. The skin underneath the shirt, however, was completely unblemished. Confused, he pulled his shirt closed again. No, there was definitely a rip in the middle of the bloodstain. He poked the rip and checked the skin beneath it. That’s when he realized where the knife had hit.</p><p>And in that moment, Clark had never felt so blessed that the transphobic insurance company wouldn’t cover removing his <em> extra accessories </em> as part of his top surgery. At the time, he had been pretty pissed or rather exceptionally pissed by his standards. He had learned long ago that if he didn’t try to relax and roll with the punches which the sketchy-at-best healthcare system threw his way, he would lose his shit, and it wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone involved. With time, he had just grown to accept that he would always have four nipples. There were days when they gave him dysphoria, but post-op, he really didn’t care, apart from not wanting to take his shirt off in public. The little nubbin’s were just kinda there, doin’ their thing. When he was younger, he liked to imagine that he was an alien like Superman. He liked to claim that he didn’t name himself after the hero, but he couldn’t ever come up with another Clark when put on the spot. He never dreamed in a million years that his extra nips could be a gift from God or that he might legitimately be an alien. </p><p>He might be a bit of a himbo, but Clark knew that a knife to the gut should have killed him. He also knew that the stench of blood in the bathroom was way too strong to just be from him. If he had been stabbed, had someone else been too? He followed the trail of dark red to the shower and immediately turned back to the toilet and emptied the contents of his stomach. Farrah laid in the shower covered in blood, eyes glassy and distant. Clark went from standing on top of the world to falling through the endless void. <em> Who? What? Why? </em> His thoughts just started to run over each other until nothing was left but static.</p><p>The wail of a siren broke his trance. He had to leave. As much as it pained him, he was not going to be caught in the bathroom with the body of his almost-sister-in-law, and he had a feeling the police wouldn’t accept his “I was stabbed too but then magic revived me” answer to why he was there. Clark took off his shoes and peeked out the door. When the coast was clear, he slipped into the master bedroom. Popping his shoes back on, he climbed out the same way he came in. Once he was safely in the tree, he realized that he had nowhere to go. Farrah was dead. As much as he loved Annleigh and her sister, he was always a bit awkward around their parents. They never seemed to mind having him around all the time, but he picked up on some vibe, and he wasn’t sure he knew what to do with it. <em> Either way, I should let her know that I care. </em> He pulled out his phone and shot her a text. “I’m so sorry about Farrah. Let me know what I can do for you.” The message turned from blue to green to green with a little ‘message not sent’ banner.’ <em> Right. Her phone broke. Forgot. </em> He would just have to grab her when she left. </p><p>“Annleigh, I’m so sorry about Clark and Farrah,” a voice drifted up from the porch. Clark recognized it as the one he heard in the bathroom before he had been knocked unconscious. He was confused why he was being grouped in with Farrah. He wasn’t the one laying dead on the bathroom floor covered in blood… <em> Oh God. She thinks I’m dead. They all think I’m dead. Mom and Dad. </em> He realized that he had to beat the news home. He couldn’t bear for his parents to think he was dead. He bolted to his car and pulled out of the driveway. Clark saluted the guard as casually as he could as he pulled out of the gated community. He made a left turn at the stoplight just as two police cars whipped around the corner and past the guard post. </p><p>On a normal day, he was a very careful driver. Farrah was always giving him shit about it, but he took pride in “driving like a little bitch.” This was anything but a normal day. He estimated he had five to ten minutes to cover a fifteen minute drive to beat the phone call home. He turned on his emergency flashers hoping that his driving instructor hadn’t lied when the former Fed-ex had told him that they were the layman’s siren.</p><p>“Siri, call home,” he commanded.</p><p>“Calling home,” the automated voice responded. <em> Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. </em></p><p>“Hello?” came the voice of his younger brother through the car speakers.</p><p>“Chad, hey bud. Can you put mom and dad on the phone?” Clark said, trying to sound as cheerful as he could while shuddering at all of the red lights and stop signs he was tearing through. There was a bit of handling noise on the other end of the line, and then his dad’s voice replaced his brother’s.</p><p>“Clark? Is that you? What the fuck is happening?” <em> Shit. Dad’s swearing. I must be too late.  </em></p><p>“I’m on my way home,” he said and hung up.</p><p>Five minutes later he pulled into the driveway of his family’s two story house, killed the engine, and braced himself for whatever awaited him on the other side of the front door. He was not expecting the high school mascot to be standing in the living room with his parents. Everyone had clearly been crying, the girl most of all.</p><p>“Young man, please explain what in God’s name is going on?” his mother said cooly as he hung his keys on their peg.</p><p>“Shit. You still had a pulse?” Reese said. “But you’re bleeding. You were stabbed. Cairo put Riley's kitchen knife in your stomach. See there’s blood on your shirt. Ah I’m so confused.”</p><p>Clark’s dad wrapped him in an uncertain hug, as though he thought that the boy might be a figment of his grief-stricken imagination. “Son, can I see your chest?” his dad asked carefully. </p><p>Clark was not a fan of this request, but his body was on autopilot. His mind was too busy scrambling to reconcile the fact that the girl who tried to kill him and who possibly killed Farrah was standing in his living room. Clark opened his shirt, and the whole room stared. Where his left, lower nipple had been, he now had a small scar shaped like a pentagram. <em> Well that’s… unexpected. </em>Clark’s thoughts were so far gone that he nearly missed his mom making money related hand gestures at his dad who just sighed and pulled out his pocketbook.</p><p>Clark looked at the Tiger, an unasked question dancing on his tongue. She seemed like a nice girl. Annleigh never really complained about her, which was always a good sign. Annleigh only ever spoke ill of a handful of people, but the ones she did usually deserved it. Nonetheless, Clark had to know even if he didn’t really want the answer. “Did you kill Farrah?”</p><p>“Gods no, she was dead when I came looking for her,” Reese exclaimed. “I’m really sorry about bludgeoning you. I thought you were the person who killed her. Sometimes I forget my own strength.” </p><p>Clark hadn’t realized that he had stopped falling through the void until he started falling again. Maybe he was just falling faster now. He wasn’t sure, but something changed, and he was once again aware of a massive Farrah-shaped hole in his heart. This time, he didn’t have anything to stop him from losing it. He just curled up on the floor and wept. He didn’t notice when his parents slid out of the room or when Reese draped a blanket over him and got comfortable on the floor next to him. He only noticed a slight sting of searing heat in his torso before he slipped into unconsciousness.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Bel, this is your fault. I hope you're happy. Thanks (???) to the watt server...</p></blockquote></div></div>
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